


Whetstone

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Episode Related, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-25
Updated: 2016-09-25
Packaged: 2018-08-17 04:04:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8129770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: Aramis checks up on Porthos after he lets Bonnaire go. (Coda fic for 3x04)





	

There’s the sharp scrape of the whetstone against the dagger. That same, methodical scraping sound as he sharpens its edge to a fine point. At this point, it seems a moot point – hours spent fiddling with the weapons. 

Aramis hovers, waiting to see if Porthos will be the first one to speak. But he doesn’t offer anything and soon Aramis drifts closer. There’s the crunch of his footsteps, punctuating that loud scraping, the slow slide of a knife’s edge as it works itself to a fine point. Porthos is methodical. He knows how to savor this, knows how to keep his hands distracted. Aramis knows this all too well – knows that if his hands were to still, they would be shaking. Not still at all. Only the illusion of control.

The scraping of the whetstone—

When he sits down beside Porthos, neither of them speak right away. It’s just as well. Aramis can be patient, knows to wait. His breathing evens out with the drag of the stone in Porthos’ hand, fitting perfectly against his palm, as if an extension of him. Aramis’ own heart feels heavy, remembering a woman he’d long since left behind, blood on her wedding dress and collapsing into herself. This, though, is different. This is Porthos. He always finds his way back towards him, gravitating towards him, sensing when there is silence, when there is pain. 

He would give so much to take it away now. The scrape of the whetstone. 

Finally, Porthos heaves a sigh, turns his body slightly, and lets the dagger drop down into the ground. The tip of it pierces the dirt like through butter. He sits in silence, saying nothing. Again, Aramis waits. Lets himself be patient. The dagger is sharp. The whetstone is round in Porthos’ hand. Porthos’ eyes are so clear, round and beautifully brown. Aramis knows them without ever having to see them. Up close, there are no flecks of gold or other colors – just brown, deep and pure and expansive. 

Then Porthos turns back towards Aramis, and his expression is weary – as steely and stone-stiff as the stone in his hand, the dagger in the earth. 

“… Are you alright?” Aramis finally prompts, even though he knows the answer, even though he can see the pain etched so perfectly in Porthos’ eyes. Bottomless brown. 

Porthos’ smile is a sardonic thing – something far more painful than if he were to cry or not react at all. Aramis knows that smile, knows it after even all these years – the smile of a man who does not know how to react beyond smiling, a defensive, protective gesture meant to shield how deeply he cares. He’s seen it so many times before, crowded around a tavern table while a man spits careless words, thrown haphazardly over his shoulder when thinking about his childhood, when people of the past are brought up. He’s seen that smile too many times. 

Porthos’ smile finally drops. He folds his fingers around the whetstone, worries it against his palm. His knuckles are scraped. His body stiff and tired. Shoulders tensed. The scrape of the stone against his skin. 

“What’s the damn point of any of this?” Porthos asks, and sounds wearier than he has in all the time that Aramis has known him, these years weighing down on him – war, suffering, hunger, and now Bonnaire, free to live another day. 

Aramis doesn’t know what to say, so he curls his hand around Porthos, ceases the fidgeting of his fingers against the stone. Porthos’ other hand fists against his thigh, moves to start tapping against his knee. Aramis keeps his hand against Porthos’, leans in closer. 

“I’m tired of this all,” Porthos says, quiet, frustrated. “Tired of all this struggling and living like this. I’m just – tired.”

Aramis nods a little and squeezes his hand, wishes he had the words to reassure him.

Porthos’ sad smile returns, along with a chuff of an unhappy laugh. “I sound like Charon.”

He tilts his head away, looking down at Aramis’ hand against his. He slowly draws his hand away, but only to set the whetstone down beside the dagger, still sticking up out of the dirt. 

Aramis is still, waits for Porthos to reach for his hand again. 

“You’re not like Charon,” Aramis says. 

The wound is an old one, but easy to poke. Porthos shakes his head but there’s a sharpness to the corner of his eyes. 

“Why did I let him go?” Porthos asks, hopeless and tired.

“Because you’re a better man than he could ever hope to be,” Aramis answers, without hesitation. This much he knows is true – that Porthos is like the sun, that he is all that is good and warm and gentle, even if he might forget as much. That Porthos is everything. 

Porthos shakes his head, looking down again. Aramis doesn’t press him, can sense the words on the cusp of speaking, working their way against Porthos’ throat. 

Porthos breathes out, shaky and uncertain. 

“Nothing feels the way it used to,” Porthos says. “Nothing. Home. Being here. Not having to fight every day.” He pauses, staring down at the ground. “I shouldn’t have let him go.” 

“It was your choice to make,” Aramis tells him. “That you didn’t speaks to your grace and—”

“Don’t,” Porthos interrupts, voice wretched. “Stop.”

Aramis falls silent.

After a moment Porthos continues, “Sorry.”

“You don’t have to be,” Aramis tells him. 

“I’m just… tired,” Porthos says again. “Of feeling like this.”

Aramis breathes out, shaky, remembering his own years from the past, those months after Savoy, that feeling of hopelessness, that feeling of uncertainty in quiet moments away from fighting. He knows this all too well. And there is nothing that chills him to his core quite like realizing that Porthos now understands all that far more than he ever should have. 

“I know,” Aramis answers, quiet. He knows it isn’t enough. “But you’re a good person, Porthos. You always have been.” 

Porthos shakes his head and says nothing more.


End file.
